


Chase the demons from your dreams

by the_hopeless_existentialist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (more comfort than hurt), First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Relationship, bed sharing, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-11-03 12:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10967460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_hopeless_existentialist/pseuds/the_hopeless_existentialist
Summary: This is written for @hiatustory's May Prompt- bed sharing.I desperately wanted to submit something for this prompt but managed to leave it right to the last minute, I'm afraid this is a WIP (EDIT: yep, this is now completed). Still I hope you enjoy! :)Also, I discovered this song which fit perfectly with my title and my fic. It's actually a really beautiful song so I am gonna leave thisherefor you to listen to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for @hiatustory's May Prompt- bed sharing. 
> 
> I desperately wanted to submit something for this prompt but managed to leave it right to the last minute, I'm afraid this is a WIP (EDIT: yep, this is now completed). Still I hope you enjoy! :) 
> 
> Also, I discovered this song which fit perfectly with my title and my fic. It's actually a really beautiful song so I am gonna leave this [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTVEqS85jk0) for you to listen to.

 

 Sherlock hovered in the doorway, his fingers twitching nervously against the handle, the cool of the metal anchoring him to the spot. This felt like an invasion of privacy. John Watson was an exceptionally proud man. He ruled himself with a rigid, unwavering control during the day, rivalling even Sherlock’s forceful detachment from emotional experience. But now, at night, while sleep held him tight in its unrelenting grasp, he was at the complete mercy of demons that tore at him and ravaged him in his dreams. Sherlock edged forward, his heart pounding against his rib cage and his bare feet sliding rough over the carpet. John looked so small. The bed clothes twisted around him as he writhed about beneath them, the duvet clenched tightly between his fingers. His skin was slick with sweat and his cheeks were dampened by tears. He moaned out his anguish once again, his eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched and Sherlock swallowed thickly as he stepped into the room.

John had been having these nightmares as long as Sherlock had known him. It was obvious that they were related to his time in Afghanistan but John did not want to talk about them. He had deterred Sherlock when he had brought them up, initially more curiosity than concern in those first few tentative days of their acquaintance. He had made it clear that he did not want to discuss it and Sherlock had, reluctantly, acquiesced. But the nightmares had worsened. Night after night, John was torn from sleep panting and screaming, fear coming alive on his lips. It was starting to wear on him, whether he admitted it or not. He was sluggish and worn out during the day, using caffeine as a crutch, drinking copious amounts of tea just to stay awake. The bags under his eyes darkened with each passing day; deep purple-grey bruises etched into his skin.

And then Sherlock had discovered that the violin could soothe him, quelling the demons that raged inside of him as a savage beast can be calmed by music. So that is what he did. Whenever, he heard John thrashing about, giving voice to his fear, Sherlock would take out his violin and play for him, drawing out soft notes with gentle caresses of his bow. Slowly, John would quieten and drift into more tranquil sleep. Whether he remembered these midnight concerts, Sherlock didn’t know. It didn’t matter though, because John now emerged in the mornings bright eyed and rested. Sherlock had found a way to alleviate John’s pain and that was enough for him. John didn’t need to know.

However, tonight was different. The violin had seemingly lost its magic and John had been tossing and turning for nearly an hour. Sherlock didn’t know what to do. That was how he found himself here, hesitating at the foot of John’s bed, torn between desperately wanting to help and knowing that John would loathe him bearing witness to his vulnerability, in this way. Another groan escaped from between John’s lips and he threw his arm across his face, shielding himself from an enemy that only he could see. Sherlock’s heart ached. He couldn’t leave John alone, not like this.  Having made his decision, Sherlock stepped around to the empty side of the bed and sat down tentatively on the edge. He paused for a moment, glancing almost apprehensively at John before swinging his legs up and settling himself against the head board, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. John rolled over onto his side, as if he could sense his presence and Sherlock had to resist the urge to touch him. He spoke to him instead; just empty platitudes and comforts, careful to keep his voice low and steady. Slowly, John settled into a deeper slumber, out of reach and safe, no longer haunted. Sherlock was surprised but grateful that it had worked. He waited a few moments longer, in silence, before quietly slipping out, clicking the door shut behind him.

Slowly it became habit; when John was gripped by fear, Sherlock would stand sentry over him, fending off the demons that tormented him. He would sit and talk to John, initially about cases, or an experiment he was working on, or an interesting article he was reading. Eventually though, the topics drifted into more personal territory and Sherlock spoke about his family and his childhood. He would talk until John had settled down and then he would leave, always before John stirred.

The months passed and life settled into a routine for both John and Sherlock. The adrenalin fuelled excitement of cases interspersed with calmer, more domestic moments of takeaway, television and laughter. And John had started working at the surgery, taking up shifts as they became available. His nightmares became less and less frequent. Sherlock found himself missing him. As their friendship had blossomed into an effortless companionship during the day, Sherlock had found it easier to give voice to his feelings during the nights, when the air was thick with sleep, shrouded in the pre-dawn light and the knowledge that John needed him. Sherlock started letting himself into John’s room even if he was already sleeping peacefully. He would climb onto the bed next to him, enjoying the warmth of John’s body next to his, and he would talk. It helped him settle his own mind and clarify his thoughts. Speaking to John in this way was easy. It was on one of these nights that Sherlock finally gave voice to his sentiments. The moon was full and the light that trickled through the curtains cast everything in an ethereal silver glow. The dawn chorus was beginning to stir, their beautiful notes strung together into a delicate melody. And Sherlock Holmes lay next to John Watson, his hand resting gently upon his shoulder. It was then, in this half moment, that the words tumbled free from Sherlock’s lips;

_“I love you.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally did it! It took a bit longer than I expected, I've been finding it quite difficult to write the last couple of days and I was ill over the weekend :( Still, it is now finished!  
> Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy!! :D
> 
> (Please forgive any mistakes, I did proof-read it quickly but I was desperate to submit it. I might have missed some...)

 

John lay in bed. His hands were clasped loosely across his chest and he looked up at the flickering shadows that were dancing across his ceiling, in the half-light trickling through his curtains. He could hear Sherlock in the room below him, moaning and grumbling, ensnared in the claws of another vicious nightmare. John felt himself tense, itching with the soldier’s desire to protect and compelled by the doctor’s need to heal and soothe. The knowledge that he couldn’t help, that he couldn’t rush to Sherlock’s side and offer comfort tugged painfully at his heart. Each distraught sound from Sherlock, that wrested itself through the floorboards dividing them, sent a new wave of sympathetic agony coursing through John’s blood, keeping him trapped on this side of wakefulness.

He had noticed the nightmares as soon as he had moved back in, nearly three weeks ago now, but he didn’t know what to do to help. Their relationship was still strained, frayed by uncertainty and burdened by doubt and betrayal. They had not yet recovered from all that had happened over the last few years; The Fall, Mary and then the whole situation with Magnussen… and then what Mary had done to Sherlock. John grimaced at the memory, his jaw clenching as if he could ward off the thought. He no longer knew what part he played in Sherlock’s life. He desperately wanted to be there for Sherlock, but he didn’t know whether he would be welcomed in that role. And so here he was, night after night, bearing witness to Sherlock’s pain. John knew what it was like to be afraid of sleep, to know that the demons were waiting there, ready to attack with fear-laced barbs as soon as eyelids fluttered closed. He knew, intimately, the blind horror of waking up panting not knowing, for a moment, what was real and what was imagined. John had been there. And those first few months after Afghanistan were hideous. Nothing had seemed to help him, save perhaps time. Eventually, it seemed, his nightmares began to recede on their own. Maybe the same would hold true for Sherlock? John hoped so.

Another hoarse cry, cracked and broken, tore through the flat, followed almost immediately by another, more laden with desperation than the first. John jerked upright in his bed, throwing the covers away from him. He hesitated for only a moment before swinging himself out of bed. He couldn’t do this. He _couldn’t_ do this! He pushed Sherlock’s door open, the feeling of the wood grain coarse under his fingertips, and peered into the darkness inside. Despite the sound coming from him, Sherlock lay absolutely still, his knees drawn to his chest and his arms locked protectively around his head. Sherlock had always favoured the façade of the sociopathic, the illusion of being emotionless, controlled, governed by logic alone, sewn tightly together forming a second skin, an armour that Sherlock stepped into and wore with ease, even more so since he had returned from death. But now, that mask had been pried loose, leaving Sherlock raw and bloodied and so very vulnerable.John did the only thing he could. Drawn forward by instinct, he carefully clambered onto the bed beside him, to sit with, to stand sentry. Sherlock tensed as the bed dipped beneath John’s weight. The whimper that escaped his lips was so laced with fear, John’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes pricked uncomfortably.

"Ssh, Sherlock. It's okay. It's all okay. I promise,” John hushed hurriedly trying to ignore how the sound had fractured his self-control and stirred a panic that threatened to spill over and consume him. The tension thrumming through Sherlock's body seemed to dissipate a little upon hearing John's voice, and John breathed a small sigh of relief. And so John kept talking to him, keeping his voice quiet and even and eventually Sherlock stilled and was drawn into a more peaceful sleep. John did not notice as Sherlock slowly unfurled, relaxing into the bed and into the deep timbres of John's voice and John did not notice how his own hand instinctively reached up and gently brushed Sherlock's sweat-blackened hair from his eyes.

John stared down at Sherlock for a long moment, quiet and reflective. Sherlock had saved him all those years ago; showing him that his life-after-war did not have to be mundane 9-5 jobs and evening telly, crippled, lonely and trapped by self-loathing. It could be adrenaline and adventure, of late nights and racing starlight across roof tops. It could be exhilaration igniting in his soul and takeaway eaten in the early hours. And it could be friendship and loyalty and-- John swallowed heavily and he nodded his head stiffly as if granting himself permission. Here, now, in this tenuous place between wake and sleep he could be honest with himself. It had always been more than that.

Those first few months after Sherlock had been taken from him were unbearably painful. His entire life had crashed around him, leaving him howling alone in the rubble. Living with Sherlock Holmes was brilliant, incandescent, dangerous but life without him... it was unbearable, grey and so completely empty. More than once he had found his fingers wrapped tight around the sig. feeling the cool of the metal and its heft in his hands. But it had always been too heavy to lift to his temple and the trigger had always been too stiff to squeeze. John did not want to be in that world again. He loved Sherlock fiercely and he didn't know what that meant, but John couldn't live without him. Sherlock’s absence those two years had made that perfectly clear. He would not survive it again. He didn't yet know how but John was going to fix what had broken between them.

John let his eyes fall closed for just a moment, letting Sherlock's even breaths soothe him. The frenetic energy that had been hissing and crackling through the air before had dissipated leaving John and Sherlock wrapped in a gossamer calm. And before he knew what was happening, before he could protest and drag himself to his feet, to his own bed, before he could put away the feelings that had been drawn out of him, the sounds of life that stirred with the dawn; the hum of traffic, the faint clattering from the café below, John was lulled to sleep.

 

******************************

 

Sherlock allowed himself to be drawn back into consciousness. He felt content and rested in a way that had been evading him for months. He kept his eyes closed, taking a second to enjoy the moment of peace; a kaleidoscope of sunlight across his eyelids, the softness of Egyptian cotton against his skin. He smiled, letting it tug at the corners of his lips. He hadn't realised how much of a strain the nightmares were putting him under. He slowly stretched the stiffness out of his muscles. Maybe today was going to be a good day. He took a deep breath and relished the whisper of it against his skin on the exhale.

Then he froze. Wait… the easy calm evaporated instantly. There was someone else in the room, their breath deep and even and entirely out of place. Sherlock swallowed heavily, trying to ignore the fear grasping at him with icy tendrils. No, not enough information, no need to panic, not yet.  He took a deep breath before blinking his eyes open and letting the room swim into focus. John? Sherlock let his eyes wander over the sleeping figure, who was propped up against the headboard, head falling onto chest, arms crossed. Sherlock sighed in relief, trying to slow his heart which was currently threatening to leap out of his chest. But what was he doing here? He rolled over onto his side so he could see John a little better. The motion seemed to disturb John, who blinked rapidly as he awoke. He started slightly as he realised where he was and then realised that Sherlock was awake and watching him, cautiously, curiously.

“Shit, I’m sorry Sherlock. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I should--”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked mildly, quietly.

“I heard-- you were having nightmares. It sounded horrible, Sherlock. I wanted to make sure you were alright. I’m-- I-- I should go--“

“No, please. Stay… if you want. You don’t have to leave,” Sherlock said reaching out and grabbing John’s arm as he made to stand up. “I don’t mind,” he added, his voice barely a whisper.

John raised his eyes from where he had been staring at Sherlock’s hand on his arm. Sherlock’s eyes were so full of emotion; of confusion, wariness, a little fear but also realisation, affection. It was all written there and Sherlock was letting John read it.

“You came to sit with me because I was having a nightmare.” Sherlock murmured softly, carefully, trying not to disturb the fragile moment that was unfolding around them. John nodded and Sherlock smiled up at him, so gentle and soft, the fear finally receding from his gaze. “John,” Sherlock said as he slowly, deliberately slid his fingers across John’s skin, hovering for a moment over his pulse, thrumming steadily, in his wrist before tangling his fingers in John’s, his watchful eyes assessing and deducing. John faltered for a moment, overwhelmed and disorientated, before his expression changed, as if he had made a decision, and he allowed his thumb a brief caress against Sherlock’s palm.

“I can stay,” John said returning Sherlock’s hesitant smile.

They still had so much that they needed to talk about but here and now, side by side and hand in hand time seemed to still, the promise of things to come hanging in the air around them.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I have written an epilogue! :D 
> 
> This chapter was inspired by and written for [Starmew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starmew) or [Johnlock-adventures](https://johnlock-adventures.tumblr.com/) on tumblr as a VERY belated Christmas present.
> 
> Note: the fic is complete minus this additional chapter, which is responsible for the change in the rating. If you want the story to remain strictly SFW then you are more than welcome to give this epilogue a miss!

The moment stretched out, spinning a delicate cocoon from the admissions that had spilled forth from hearts that could no longer bear the strain. It clung to them, like silk, as they succumbed, once again, to sleep. And the day rushed in, until John and Sherlock were bathed in golden sunlight. It dappled brightly on the ceiling, dancing cheerily, the roar of buses and taxis and commuters, the lull of conversation outside- clipped staccato blending seamlessly with a lyrical lilt as words rolled, eager, off tongues. Life continued on completely oblivious to the momentum of what was unfolding in one small flat in Baker Street.

John awoke first, wrapped up warm in the bed, in Sherlock and in the comforting weight their new revelations had carefully laid over them. They had drifted closer together in their sleep, but there hands had fallen apart, not yet sure of the rules to this new game. The distance stretched out between them like an unspoken question. Their breath mingled in the space between them; John lying atop the covers still and Sherlock snuggled underneath- one arm flung towards John, reaching out towards him. John blinked away the last remnants of sleep and a soft smile pulled at his lips as he took Sherlock in; sleep mussed, bundled in down and soft cotton.

It was then that Sherlock blinked awake, as if the weight of John’s gaze had roused him. He looked down at his empty hand where it lay between them on the bed and then he glanced back up to John. A flicker of disquiet, of uncertainty alighted along the sharp cut of his cheekbones and nestled itself stiffly against the set of his jaw. His gaze clouded as he began to pull away. John’s smile fell as his heart leapt into his throat and he reached out capturing Sherlock’s wrist.

            “Please don’t leave.”

Sherlock froze waiting in the silence that had knotted itself between them. Their unspoken confessions from last night seemed distant, ethereal and dream like. John nodded to himself, a decisive jerk of his head, and cleared his throat. The moment was slipping away from them. He had to say something, had to take Sherlock by the hand and lead them the rest of the way from friends to lovers. He reached out with his other hand until his fingertips brushed against Sherlock’s cheek, feather-light.

            “Sherlock I-- I want this. Whatever this is, whatever you want from this, from us, I want it too.”  He pulled closer to Sherlock, branding him with his touch. This beautiful man whose synaptic firing could rival the spark of exploding stars, whose brilliant mind saw everything, observing and analytical, this man loved him. He had plucked his heart from his chest and was holding it out to John. John had never felt about anyone the way he felt for Sherlock. The force of the emotion urging its way through his veins left him winded and breathless. But he faltered in his touch, his brow furrowing. The thought was terrifying. He wound his fingers down to where Sherlock’s pulse thrummed, fast and hard under the skin. What if he couldn’t give it the care he needed? What if he dropped it? Ruined it, leaving it broken and bruised? What if he couldn’t contain the sheer magnitude of Sherlock’s emotion? His fingers wandered back up to his jaw and he brought his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s. His face lay open and honest, the fear written there for John to read… and the hope. It was that which finally tipped the balance over into certainty. He knew what he had to do. With that he took out his heart, offering it to Sherlock as he tucked Sherlock’s deep into his own chest.

His gaze shifted down to Sherlock’s lips as his thumb gently brushed against them. They parted slightly under his touch and John could feel his breath, hot, against his skin. He looked up to meet Sherlock’s eye, checking for his consent. Sherlock nodded minutely, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Then before John had chance to move, Sherlock’s hands were around him, one resting in the small of his back, the other at his shoulder, and he pulled John to him, closing those last few inches and chasing away the last tattered remains of doubt. Another breath and their lips were pressed together. John’s eyes fluttered closed surrendering himself to the tide of emotion and sensation that poured over him, drowning in it. They stayed there like that, perfectly still, overwhelmed. John could feel the soft curve of Sherlock’s mouth against his own, the slight rasp of morning stubble, his fingers against his body. And then his instincts took over. One hand wound its way into Sherlock’s dark curls, the other against his jaw. He tilted his head slightly allowing their lips to slide together and John felt Sherlock sigh in his arms as he parted his lips slightly and breathed John in.

 

Slowly the kiss deepened, from gentle and hesitant to urgent and passionate laced with need. John sought out Sherlock’s tongue with his own, exploring the inside of his mouth, touching and tasting. They both gasped at the contact. Sherlock’s fingers tightened against John, clutching at his shirt, twitching restlessly. They broke apart for a moment, their hearts pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps. Sherlock pulled back further still, tugging at the duvet. John realised what he was trying to do and after a moment they were both wrapped under the covers and in each other’s arms. John muffled a groan as Sherlock pressed closer against him and he realised that he was aroused. His erection brushed against Sherlock’s as their hips rocked together. John blinked his eyes open and took Sherlock in; pupils blown wide, flushed skin, lips parted and swollen, he looked devastating. And then they were kissing again, frenetic energy crackling along their skin, like static.

            “John?” Sherlock panted against John’s lips, the question hanging in the air between them as Sherlock’s fingers danced over the waistband of John’s pyjama bottoms. A finger-tip slipped just below, offering a gentle caress against John’s hip before it withdrew.

            “Oh God, yes, Sherlock please yes” John gasped, his head falling to rest in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. The smell of him; the fragrance of his rich soap, skin, arousal, it wrapped itself around him, engulfed him. Sherlock’s fingers slipped back under the waistband of his trousers. John’s breaths tore through the air, uneven and ragged, as Sherlock finally finally took him in hand.

Sherlock’s touch was curious, attentive and exploratory as he slid his fingers down John’s shaft, taking his time, as if he was memorising every inch of him. John panted above his ministrations, fighting the urge to buck his hips up against him. Sherlock’s hand dipped lower, cupping his balls in his palm, before moving back to press against his perineum. Then his fingers tightened around John, giving a few firm tugs, letting his thumb run across the head, pressing at that sensitive spot right there as he reached the top. John moaned, head thrown back, eyes slammed shut. Sherlock’s grip tightened as his movements eased into a steady rhythm. All of a sudden Sherlock released him. John opened his eyes, confused at the loss of Sherlock’s warmth against him. A grumble rose in his throat and he captured Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock wriggled himself free with an amused smile. His eyes glinted as he pulled the duvet back just enough to grasp the hem of John’s shirt. Understanding clicked in John’s hazy, arousal-muddled mind and he moved up allowing Sherlock to pull his shirt over his head. He reached down fumbling with his own trousers, drunk on the feeling of Sherlock’s hand and needing to feel it again. He ended up in a tangle, wrapped in sheets and clothing and Sherlock chuckled. The deep baritone of his voice rumbled against John’s skin. He pressed a kiss to John’s forehead as he slipped his hand back down. He offered a few more strokes before reaching for his own clothing.

            “Let me.” John murmured his voice rough. He reached for Sherlock’s t-shirt and pushed it up, leaning down to kiss at the newly revealed skin of his stomach, then his chest. John glanced up, his lips twitching and a smile catching in his eyes as his tongue darted out brushing over his nipple. Sherlock groaned, his hand flying up to cradle the back of John’s head as he watched him touch and taste. John hummed appreciatively and did it again, swirling his tongue around it. He placed a single open mouthed kiss and then drew away.

            “You’re so beautiful.” He murmured almost to himself and then captured Sherlock’s gaze, burning and insistent. “I love you, Sherlock. I want to do right by you” Sherlock reached up, resting his palm against John’s cheek.

            “You will John. I love you too.” He guided John down into a gentle kiss, the press of lips offering up reassurance and John fell into it willingly letting warmth suffuse through him. “Now, please can we take this shirt off? This--” he motioned down to where his t-shirt was rucked up around his chest, “looks ridiculous.” John laughed and he pulled off the t-shirt. He let his hands run across Sherlock’s broad shoulders, across the muscles in his arms as he pushed him down onto his back. He leant down to claim Sherlock’s mouth then kissed along his jaw and the long column of his neck. He lost himself in the heady vibrations caused by Sherlock’s pleasure as he nuzzled at Sherlock’s throat, his fingers trailing south as he sucked a small bruise into the hollow just above his collar bone. He growled his dissatisfaction as he reached Sherlock’s trousers. They were slung low on his hips but they were still definitely in the way. A shiver ran up Sherlock’s body as John shuffled down the bed until he was face to face with the offending article. He lay a kiss over Sherlock’s clothed cock and then in one smooth motion he pulled his trousers down, leaning back to tug them over his feet and toss them to the floor. He nestled himself back between Sherlock’s thighs, tugging his legs up slightly. Sherlock’s hand shot down to John’s head, cradling the back of it in his palm, the other hand knotted in the sheets, his entire body thrumming with anticipation, a low rumble stirring in his throat.

Sherlock’s hips jerked up as John gripped the base of his cock.  Leaning down he swirled his tongue over the head savouring the salt and musk taste of pre-come as he licked across the slit. Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat, his next inhale ragged and uneven. John grinned, licking his lips before pulling the head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, sucking gently. Sherlock moaned, his hips thrusting up driving himself deeper into John’s mouth. John drew back quickly.

            “Sorry, sorry” Sherlock breathed, turning his head to look at John as he shuffled up and pinned Sherlock to the bed, resting his forearm firmly across his abdomen.

            “S’alright, I’ve got you.” He took him in, more confidently this time, appreciating the weight of Sherlock on his tongue. He tightened his grip, a little thrill racing down his spine with each aborted thrust that slipped through Sherlock’s self-control. It was if John had found a loose thread and by giving it just a little tug Sherlock was unravelling so completely in John’s arms. He was so exquisitely responsive. A fine sheen of swear lay across his skin, his thighs tensed and trembling with the effort of keeping still. His head was thrown back against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut. And the noises he made; the low purring rumble, breathless panting, and oh those moans. They shot straight to his cock. John rocked his own hips against the bed as he released Sherlock, sliding down to kiss at his thighs, sucking and licking, tasting Sherlock, breathing him in. Sherlock gasped beneath him as he set his teeth gently against the delicate skin there.

            “John,” Sherlock breathed. “Oh God, your tongue-- your mouth-- Aah--” he swallowed thickly. “God the things that you can do with your mouth.” Then he pulled himself up on his elbows, looking down at John his gaze filled with curiosity. “You’ve done this before.” John murmured his assent as he took Sherlock back into his mouth, swallowing him down. Sherlock swallowed hard lost in the sensations tearing through him. The smooth cotton of the sheets dragged across John’s cock as he rutted against the bed, sparks of pleasure coiling deep inside him, flashes of electricity fizzing along nerves and muscle, dragging him to the edge. Sherlock’s hands shot out to still John’s head.

            “John, stop--stop” he paused, trying to capture his breath. “I want to kiss you.” His voice was even lower than normal, thickened with lust, desire weaving its way through the deep baritone. It stirred something in John as he clambered up the bed throwing his leg over Sherlock’s hip as he took his mouth. He pressed Sherlock’s lips apart and slipped his tongue in, rough and wet and possessive. He reached down taking himself in hand, stroking himself as his tongue danced against Sherlock’s, pleading and insistent. He pulled himself on top of Sherlock, straddling his thighs as he reached out blindly for Sherlock’s hand, pulling it down until Sherlock’s fingers were pressed against John’s cock. He stifled a moan as he pressed closer, feeling the familiar stirring in his stomach. Sherlock hummed and adjusted his position slightly, then he wrapped his fingers around both of their cocks, holding them together, trapped in his fist. John grunted, the feeling of Sherlock’s hard length against his own threatened to throw him over the edge right then and there. He opened his eyes, lids heavy. Sherlock was in a similar state of crisis, his jaw clenched, his brow knitted together, his eyes squeezed shut, a look of concentration hovering across his features. John watched as he took a few deep breaths, his nostrils flaring with the effort of holding on. Then he opened his eyes; silver irises, pupils blown so wide, feral and hungry. John shivered under the gaze of Sherlock’s lust, pinned down by it as he began to move his fist. John closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward into Sherlock’s shoulder, but Sherlock’s fingers knotted in his hair tugging him away until they were face to face once again. John saw the first signs of pleasure flit across Sherlock’s face, his lips pressing together, his eyes slipping closed for a moment before he captured John’s gaze again. His breath hitched in his throat, his fingers stuttering in their movement. He leant forward to press a soft kiss to John’s lips. The pressure increased against their cocks and Sherlock moaned against John’s mouth. It was that that finally tipped John over the edge. Sherlock’s voice swept through him, hollowing him out then filling him up again, white noise crashing through his head. He reached up to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands, fighting the urge to let his eyes close as he came undone. Sherlock didn’t last much longer, tensing and trembling as he split open, spiralling out of control, his eyes bearing into John’s as they clouded with pleasure. And they clung onto each other as they fell.

John came back to himself. Sherlock’s arm had snaked around his waist, holding him close. John felt the gentle smile on Sherlock’s lips as he pressed a kiss to John’s head. John felt warmth suffusing through him and he leant down to kiss Sherlock properly, capturing his bottom lip between his teeth and sucking gently. Was it possible to convey the absolute depths of what he was feeling with a simple press of lips and slide of skin? John didn’t know but he was willing to try.

The change that had occurred between them in the last twelve hours was earth shattering. They had been stepping around each other’s broken pieces, keeping their distance, wary and on edge. They had been bound by their past, shackled by everything that had passed between them, so much pain, heartbreak, misunderstanding. They had shattered each other’s trust, betrayal pressing, splintered and bloodied, into their hearts. John was so sure that he had lost Sherlock, perhaps for ever, dedicated himself to a lifetime of trying to atone for the mistakes he had made, the hurt he had caused. But against all odds they had found their way back to each other again and John no longer felt afraid. Their past was still their past, that had not changed, but now John was certain that no matter what the world threw their way, no matter what demons got dredged up, they would survive it. Together they could stand strong against their demons and together, hand in hand they would drive them away and finally finally they could sleep in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any constructive feedback is welcome. This is my first time writing anything remotely smutty and I think it hasn't gone too badly. However if there are things that you think really didn't work then feel free to let me know (nicely of course :)). And of course, if there are things you particularly liked then, feel free to mention those too ;)
> 
> [Come say hi to me on tumblr](https://the-hopeless-existentialist.tumblr.com/) Always happy to meet new people!!
> 
> (apologies for any errors or typos!)

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Of course, kudos and comments are always appreciated. :)
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr [here](https://the-hopeless-existentialist.tumblr.com/) :) I'm also excited to meet new people!


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